The Manchester Journal

The Valley of the Shadow.

True, the blunt is the shadow:
Yet is it like the shadow:
That's often gone ere we can describe it,
And the more we say about it, the less our
comprehension of it.

Minds of men wind about in its watch,
And to men the mystery, a mystery
But as freeing man is a reality
A far man we think and a god play
Rests case then need that did not

Fever, by night and by day
Bears all down, one can never,
Thronging dread and fond and funny may
Like pilgrims, down its that midday.

Faring o'er the life last way.
By manner made of day.

This young and the old, hurrying with cha
A weary womanly throng
A is these are hand in hand a day.
A military band they're that early,
A shaded of glances and doey!

No wing are there serenely
Than time are right hearted and gay
As from a course of ay.

Chitthe

II

Above the dark stream that is the valley
Dark clouds, be capsize phindargs of woe
Below, the old task tease keep tally,
And willing or on it, they wend go
With him, every wall, e'er the levy,
And back they may fear as retreat.

Sunny ghastly, Tie said, reach that valley.
In name of a glory to come
And therefore a thary could, would and manly,
But others with larger are duah
And dain wild retreat o'er the mountain,
Bad are powerless, suicides. mumab.

Far off, we have dreams of that valley,
Strange dreams that haunt about like our souls,
When free a mist, magically-
A vapor meplnfleutmolis
And the sound of war haunter in later tarrying
Seems that of a bell with it tolls

Nor ever teach all to that valley
While breathing this still faltering breath
In vain as the way ye may dally,
An inner voice warningly saith
For the valley is the Valley of the Shadow.
And the name of the ferry man-Death.

W L SHERMAN.
Washington, D. C.